IN silence and in solitude we went,One first, the other following his steps,As minor friars journeying on their road.

The present fray had turn'd my thoughts to museUpon old Aesop's fable, where he toldWhat fate unto the mouse and frog befell.For language hath not sounds more like in sense,Than are these chances, if the originAnd end of each be heedfully compar'd.And as one thought bursts from another forth,So afterward from that another sprang,Which added doubly to my former fear.For thus I reason'd: "These through us have beenSo foil'd, with loss and mock'ry so complete,As needs must sting them sore. If anger thenBe to their evil will conjoin'd, more fellThey shall pursue us, than the savage houndSnatches the leveret, panting 'twixt his jaws."

He answer'd: "Were I form'd of leaded glass,I should not sooner draw unto myselfThy outward image, than I now imprintThat from within. This moment came thy thoughtsPresented before mine, with similar actAnd count'nance similar, so that from bothI one design have fram'd. If the right coastIncline so much, that we may thence descendInto the other chasm, we shall escapeSecure from this imagined pursuit."

He had not spoke his purpose to the end,When I from far beheld them with spread wingsApproach to take us. Suddenly my guideCaught me, ev'n as a mother that from sleepIs by the noise arous'd, and near her seesThe climbing fires, who snatches up her babeAnd flies ne'er pausing, careful more of himThan of herself, that but a single vestClings round her limbs. Down from the jutting beachSupine he cast him, to that pendent rock,Which closes on one part the other chasm.

Never ran water with such hurrying paceAdown the tube to turn a landmill's wheel,When nearest it approaches to the spokes,As then along that edge my master ran,Carrying me in his bosom, as a child,Not a companion. Scarcely had his feetReach'd to the lowest of the bed beneath,

When over us the steep they reach'd; but fearIn him was none; for that high Providence,Which plac'd them ministers of the fifth foss,Power of departing thence took from them all.

There in the depth we saw a painted tribe,Who pac'd with tardy steps around, and wept,Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil.Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low downBefore their eyes, in fashion like to thoseWorn by the monks in Cologne. Their outsideWas overlaid with gold, dazzling to view,But leaden all within, and of such weight,That Frederick's compar'd to these were straw.Oh, everlasting wearisome attire!

We yet once more with them together turn'dTo leftward, on their dismal moan intent.But by the weight oppress'd, so slowly cameThe fainting people, that our companyWas chang'd at every movement of the step.

Whence I my guide address'd: "See that thou findSome spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known,And to that end look round thee as thou go'st."

Then one, who understood the Tuscan voice,Cried after us aloud: "Hold in your feet,Ye who so swiftly speed through the dusk air.Perchance from me thou shalt obtain thy wish."

Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake:"Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed."

I staid, and saw two Spirits in whose lookImpatient eagerness of mind was mark'dTo overtake me; but the load they bareAnd narrow path retarded their approach.

Soon as arriv'd, they with an eye askancePerus'd me, but spake not: then turning eachTo other thus conferring said: "This oneSeems, by the action of his throat, alive.And, be they dead, what privilege allowsThey walk unmantled by the cumbrous stole?"

Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitestThe college of the mourning hypocrites,Disdain not to instruct us who thou art."

"By Arno's pleasant stream," I thus replied,"In the great city I was bred and grew,And wear the body I have ever worn.but who are ye, from whom such mighty grief,As now I witness, courseth down your cheeks?What torment breaks forth in this bitter woe?""Our bonnets gleaming bright with orange hue,"One of them answer'd, "are so leaden gross,That with their weight they make the balancesTo crack beneath them. Joyous friars we were,Bologna's natives, Catalano I,He Loderingo nam'd, and by thy landTogether taken, as men used to takeA single and indifferent arbiter,To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped,Gardingo's vicinage can best declare."

"O friars!" I began, "your miseries--"But there brake off, for one had caught my eye,Fix'd to a cross with three stakes on the ground:He, when he saw me, writh'd himself, throughoutDistorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.And Catalano, who thereof was 'ware,

Thus spake: "That pierced spirit, whom intentThou view'st, was he who gave the PhariseesCounsel, that it were fitting for one manTo suffer for the people. He doth lieTransverse; nor any passes, but him firstBehoves make feeling trial how each weighs.In straits like this along the foss are plac'dThe father of his consort, and the restPartakers in that council, seed of illAnd sorrow to the Jews." I noted then,How Virgil gaz'd with wonder upon him,Thus abjectly extended on the crossIn banishment eternal. To the friarHe next his words address'd: "We pray ye tell,If so be lawful, whether on our rightLies any opening in the rock, wherebyWe both may issue hence, without constraintOn the dark angels, that compell'd they comeTo lead us from this depth." He thus replied:"Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rockFrom the next circle moving, which o'erstepsEach vale of horror, save that here his copeIs shatter'd. By the ruin ye may mount:For on the side it slants, and most the heightRises below." With head bent down awhileMy leader stood, then spake: "He warn'd us ill,Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook."

To whom the friar: At Bologna erst"I many vices of the devil heard,Among the rest was said, 'He is a liar,And the father of lies!'" When he had spoke,My leader with large strides proceeded on,Somewhat disturb'd with anger in his look.

I therefore left the spirits heavy laden,And following, his beloved footsteps mark'd.

CANTO XXIV

IN the year's early nonage, when the sunTempers his tresses in Aquarius' urn,And now towards equal day the nights recede,When as the rime upon the earth puts onHer dazzling sister's image, but not longHer milder sway endures, then riseth upThe village hind, whom fails his wintry store,And looking out beholds the plain aroundAll whiten'd, whence impatiently he smitesHis thighs, and to his hut returning in,There paces to and fro, wailing his lot,As a discomfited and helpless man;Then comes he forth again, and feels new hopeSpring in his bosom, finding e'en thus soonThe world hath chang'd its count'nance, grasps his crook,And forth to pasture drives his little flock:So me my guide dishearten'd when I sawHis troubled forehead, and so speedilyThat ill was cur'd; for at the fallen bridgeArriving, towards me with a look as sweet,He turn'd him back, as that I first beheldAt the steep mountain's foot. Regarding wellThe ruin, and some counsel first maintain'dWith his own thought, he open'd wide his armAnd took me up. As one, who, while he works,Computes his labour's issue, that he seemsStill to foresee the' effect, so lifting meUp to the summit of one peak, he fix'dHis eye upon another. "Grapple that,"Said he, "but first make proof, if it be suchAs will sustain thee." For one capp'd with leadThis were no journey. Scarcely he, though light,And I, though onward push'd from crag to crag,Could mount. And if the precinct of this coastWere not less ample than the last, for himI know not, but my strength had surely fail'd.But Malebolge all toward the mouthInclining of the nethermost abyss,The site of every valley hence requires,That one side upward slope, the other fall.

At length the point of our descent we reach'dFrom the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd,So was the breath exhausted from my lungs,I could no further, but did seat me there.

"Now needs thy best of man;" so spake my guide:"For not on downy plumes, nor under shadeOf canopy reposing, fame is won,Without which whosoe'er consumes his daysLeaveth such vestige of himself on earth,As smoke in air or foam upon the wave.Thou therefore rise: vanish thy wearinessBy the mind's effort, in each struggle form'dTo vanquish, if she suffer not the weightOf her corporeal frame to crush her down.A longer ladder yet remains to scale.From these to have escap'd sufficeth not.If well thou note me, profit by my words."

I straightway rose, and show'd myself less spentThan I in truth did feel me. "On," I cried,"For I am stout and fearless." Up the rockOur way we held, more rugged than before,Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talkI ceas'd not, as we journey'd, so to seemLeast faint; whereat a voice from the other fossDid issue forth, for utt'rance suited ill.Though on the arch that crosses there I stood,What were the words I knew not, but who spakeSeem'd mov'd in anger. Down I stoop'd to look,But my quick eye might reach not to the depthFor shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake:"To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps,And from the wall dismount we; for as henceI hear and understand not, so I seeBeneath, and naught discern."--"I answer not,"Said he, "but by the deed. To fair requestSilent performance maketh best return."

We from the bridge's head descended, whereTo the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasmOpening to view, I saw a crowd withinOf serpents terrible, so strange of shapeAnd hideous, that remembrance in my veinsYet shrinks the vital current. Of her sandsLet Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus,Pareas and Chelyder be her brood,Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so direOr in such numbers swarming ne'er she shew'd,Not with all Ethiopia, and whate'erAbove the Erythraean sea is spawn'd.

Amid this dread exuberance of woeRan naked spirits wing'd with horrid fear,Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide,Or heliotrope to charm them out of view.With serpents were their hands behind them bound,Which through their reins infix'd the tail and headTwisted in folds before. And lo! on oneNear to our side, darted an adder up,And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied,Transpierc'd him. Far more quickly than e'er penWrote O or I, he kindled, burn'd, and chang'dTo ashes, all pour'd out upon the earth.When there dissolv'd he lay, the dust againUproll'd spontaneous, and the self-same formInstant resumed. So mighty sages tell,The' Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred yearsHave well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwithRenascent. Blade nor herb throughout his lifeHe tastes, but tears of frankincense aloneAnd odorous amomum: swaths of nardAnd myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls,He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg'dTo earth, or through obstruction fettering upIn chains invisible the powers of man,Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around,Bewilder'd with the monstrous agonyHe hath endur'd, and wildly staring sighs;So stood aghast the sinner when he rose.

Oh! how severe God's judgment, that deals outSuch blows in stormy vengeance! Who he wasMy teacher next inquir'd, and thus in fewHe answer'd: "Vanni Fucci am I call'd,Not long since rained down from TuscanyTo this dire gullet. Me the beastial lifeAnd not the human pleas'd, mule that I was,Who in Pistoia found my worthy den."

I then to Virgil: "Bid him stir not hence,And ask what crime did thrust him hither: onceA man I knew him choleric and bloody."

The sinner heard and feign'd not, but towards meHis mind directing and his face, whereinWas dismal shame depictur'd, thus he spake:"It grieves me more to have been caught by theeIn this sad plight, which thou beholdest, thanWhen I was taken from the other life.I have no power permitted to denyWhat thou inquirest. I am doom'd thus lowTo dwell, for that the sacristy by meWas rifled of its goodly ornaments,And with the guilt another falsely charged.But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus,So as thou e'er shalt 'scape this darksome realmOpen thine ears and hear what I forebode.Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines,Then Florence changeth citizens and laws.From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars,A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists,And sharp and eager driveth on the stormWith arrowy hurtling o'er Piceno's field,Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strikeEach helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground.This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart."

CANTO XXV

WHEN he had spoke, the sinner rais'd his handsPointed in mockery, and cried: "Take them, God!I level them at thee!" From that day forthThe serpents were my friends; for round his neckOne of then rolling twisted, as it said,"Be silent, tongue!" Another to his armsUpgliding, tied them, riveting itselfSo close, it took from them the power to move.

Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubtTo turn thee into ashes, cumb'ring earthNo longer, since in evil act so farThou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark,Through all the gloomy circles of the' abyss,Spirit, that swell'd so proudly 'gainst his God,Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled,Nor utter'd more; and after him there cameA centaur full of fury, shouting, "WhereWhere is the caitiff?" On Maremma's marshSwarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunchThey swarm'd, to where the human face begins.Behind his head upon the shoulders lay,With open wings, a dragon breathing fireOn whomsoe'er he met. To me my guide:"Cacus is this, who underneath the rockOf Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.He, from his brethren parted, here must treadA different journey, for his fraudful theftOf the great herd, that near him stall'd; whence foundHis felon deeds their end, beneath the maceOf stout Alcides, that perchance laid onA hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt."

While yet he spake, the centaur sped away:And under us three spirits came, of whomNor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim'd;"Say who are ye?" We then brake off discourse,Intent on these alone. I knew them not;But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that oneHad need to name another. "Where," said he,"Doth Cianfa lurk?" I, for a sign my guideShould stand attentive, plac'd against my lipsThe finger lifted. If, O reader! nowThou be not apt to credit what I tell,No marvel; for myself do scarce allowThe witness of mine eyes. But as I lookedToward them, lo! a serpent with six feetSprings forth on one, and fastens full upon him:His midmost grasp'd the belly, a forefootSeiz'd on each arm (while deep in either cheekHe flesh'd his fangs); the hinder on the thighsWere spread, 'twixt which the tail inserted curl'dUpon the reins behind. Ivy ne'er clasp'dA dodder'd oak, as round the other's limbsThe hideous monster intertwin'd his own.Then, as they both had been of burning wax,Each melted into other, mingling hues,That which was either now was seen no more.Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns,A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black,And the clean white expires. The other twoLook'd on exclaiming: "Ah, how dost thou change,Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now,

"Nor only one." The two heads now becameOne, and two figures blended in one formAppear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengthsTwo arms were made: the belly and the chestThe thighs and legs into such members chang'd,As never eye hath seen. Of former shapeAll trace was vanish'd. Two yet neither seem'dThat image miscreate, and so pass'd onWith tardy steps. As underneath the scourgeOf the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields,Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seemsA flash of lightning, if he thwart the road,So toward th' entrails of the other twoApproaching seem'd, an adder all on fire,As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart.In that part, whence our life is nourish'd first,One he transpierc'd; then down before him fellStretch'd out. The pierced spirit look'd on himBut spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn'd,As if by sleep or fev'rous fit assail'd.He ey'd the serpent, and the serpent him.One from the wound, the other from the mouthBreath'd a thick smoke, whose vap'ry columns join'd.

Lucan in mute attention now may hear,Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell,Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute.What if in warbling fiction he recordCadmus and Arethusa, to a snakeHim chang'd, and her into a fountain clear,I envy not; for never face to faceTwo natures thus transmuted did he sing,Wherein both shapes were ready to assumeThe other's substance. They in mutual guiseSo answer'd, that the serpent split his trainDivided to a fork, and the pierc'd spiritDrew close his steps together, legs and thighsCompacted, that no sign of juncture soonWas visible: the tail disparted tookThe figure which the spirit lost, its skinSoft'ning, his indurated to a rind.The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring join'dThe monster's arm-pits, whose two shorter feetSo lengthen'd, as the other's dwindling shrunk.The feet behind then twisting up becameThat part that man conceals, which in the wretchWas cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smokeWith a new colour veils, and generatesTh' excrescent pile on one, peeling it offFrom th' other body, lo! upon his feetOne upright rose, and prone the other fell.Not yet their glaring and malignant lampsWere shifted, though each feature chang'd beneath.Of him who stood erect, the mounting faceRetreated towards the temples, and what thereSuperfluous matter came, shot out in earsFrom the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg'd,Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell'dInto due size protuberant the lips.He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extendsHis sharpen'd visage, and draws down the earsInto the head, as doth the slug his horns.His tongue continuous before and aptFor utt'rance, severs; and the other's forkClosing unites. That done the smoke was laid.The soul, transform'd into the brute, glides off,Hissing along the vale, and after himThe other talking sputters; but soon turn'dHis new-grown shoulders on him, and in fewThus to another spake: "Along this pathCrawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!"

So saw I fluctuate in successive changeTh' unsteady ballast of the seventh hold:And here if aught my tongue have swerv'd, eventsSo strange may be its warrant. O'er mine eyesConfusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.

Yet 'scap'd they not so covertly, but wellI mark'd Sciancato: he alone it wasOf the three first that came, who chang'd not: thou,The other's fate, Gaville, still dost rue.

CANTO XXVI

FLORENCE exult! for thou so mightilyHast thriven, that o'er land and sea thy wingsThou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell!Among the plund'rers such the three I foundThy citizens, whence shame to me thy son,And no proud honour to thyself redounds.

But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn,Are of the truth presageful, thou ere longShalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest)Would fain might come upon thee; and that chanceWere in good time, if it befell thee now.Would so it were, since it must needs befall!For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more.

We from the depth departed; and my guideRemounting scal'd the flinty steps, which lateWe downward trac'd, and drew me up the steep.Pursuing thus our solitary wayAmong the crags and splinters of the rock,Sped not our feet without the help of hands.

Then sorrow seiz'd me, which e'en now revives,As my thought turns again to what I saw,And, more than I am wont, I rein and curbThe powers of nature in me, lest they runWhere Virtue guides not; that if aught of goodMy gentle star, or something better gave me,I envy not myself the precious boon.

As in that season, when the sun least veilsHis face that lightens all, what time the flyGives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant thenUpon some cliff reclin'd, beneath him seesFire-flies innumerous spangling o'er the vale,Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies:With flames so numberless throughout its spaceShone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depthWas to my view expos'd. As he, whose wrongsThe bears aveng'd, at its departure sawElijah's chariot, when the steeds erectRais'd their steep flight for heav'n; his eyes meanwhile,Straining pursu'd them, till the flame aloneUpsoaring like a misty speck he kenn'd;E'en thus along the gulf moves every flame,A sinner so enfolded close in each,That none exhibits token of the theft.

Upon the bridge I forward bent to look,And grasp'd a flinty mass, or else had fall'n,Though push'd not from the height. The guide, who mark'dHow I did gaze attentive, thus began:

"Within these ardours are the spirits, eachSwath'd in confining fire."--"Master, thy word,"I answer'd, "hath assur'd me; yet I deem'dAlready of the truth, already wish'dTo ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comesSo parted at the summit, as it seem'dAscending from that funeral pile, where layThe Theban brothers?" He replied: "WithinUlysses there and Diomede endureTheir penal tortures, thus to vengeance nowTogether hasting, as erewhile to wrath.These in the flame with ceaseless groans deploreThe ambush of the horse, that open'd wideA portal for that goodly seed to pass,Which sow'd imperial Rome; nor less the guileLament they, whence of her Achilles 'reftDeidamia yet in death complains.And there is rued the stratagem, that TroyOf her Palladium spoil'd."--"If they have powerOf utt'rance from within these sparks," said I,"O master! think my prayer a thousand foldIn repetition urg'd, that thou vouchsafeTo pause, till here the horned flame arrive.See, how toward it with desire I bend."

He thus: "Thy prayer is worthy of much praise,And I accept it therefore: but do thouThy tongue refrain: to question them be mine,For I divine thy wish: and they perchance,For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee."

When there the flame had come, where time and placeSeem'd fitting to my guide, he thus began:"O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire!If living I of you did merit aught,Whate'er the measure were of that desert,When in the world my lofty strain I pour'd,Move ye not on, till one of you unfoldIn what clime death o'ertook him self-destroy'd."

Of the old flame forthwith the greater hornBegan to roll, murmuring, as a fireThat labours with the wind, then to and froWagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds,Threw out its voice, and spake: "When I escap'dFrom Circe, who beyond a circling yearHad held me near Caieta, by her charms,Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam'd the shore,Nor fondness for my son, nor reverenceOf my old father, nor return of love,That should have crown'd Penelope with joy,Could overcome in me the zeal I hadT' explore the world, and search the ways of life,Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail'dInto the deep illimitable main,With but one bark, and the small faithful bandThat yet cleav'd to me. As Iberia far,Far as Morocco either shore I saw,And the Sardinian and each isle besideWhich round that ocean bathes. Tardy with ageWere I and my companions, when we cameTo the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'dThe bound'ries not to be o'erstepp'd by man.The walls of Seville to my right I left,On the' other hand already Ceuta past.

"O brothers!" I began, "who to the westThrough perils without number now have reach'd,To this the short remaining watch, that yetOur senses have to wake, refuse not proofOf the unpeopled world, following the trackOf Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang:Ye were not form'd to live the life of brutesBut virtue to pursue and knowledge high.With these few words I sharpen'd for the voyageThe mind of my associates, that I thenCould scarcely have withheld them. To the dawnOur poop we turn'd, and for the witless flightMade our oars wings, still gaining on the left.Each star of the' other pole night now beheld,And ours so low, that from the ocean-floorIt rose not. Five times re-illum'd, as oftVanish'd the light from underneath the moonSince the deep way we enter'd, when from farAppear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methoughtOf all I e'er beheld. Joy seiz'd us straight,But soon to mourning changed. From the new landA whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost sideDid strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her roundWith all the waves, the fourth time lifted upThe poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed:And over us the booming billow clos'd."

CANTO XVII

NOW upward rose the flame, and still'd its lightTo speak no more, and now pass'd on with leaveFrom the mild poet gain'd, when following cameAnother, from whose top a sound confus'd,Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look.

As the Sicilian bull, that rightfullyHis cries first echoed, who had shap'd its mould,Did so rebellow, with the voice of himTormented, that the brazen monster seem'dPierc'd through with pain; thus while no way they foundNor avenue immediate through the flame,Into its language turn'd the dismal words:But soon as they had won their passage forth,Up from the point, which vibrating obey'dTheir motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard:"O thou! to whom I now direct my voice!That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase,

"Depart thou, I solicit thee no more,Though somewhat tardy I perchance arriveLet it not irk thee here to pause awhile,And with me parley: lo! it irks not meAnd yet I burn. If but e'en now thou fallinto this blind world, from that pleasant landOf Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt,Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell,Have peace or war. For of the mountains thereWas I, betwixt Urbino and the height,Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood."

Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear,When, as he touch'd my side, the leader thus:"Speak thou: he is a Latian." My replyWas ready, and I spake without delay:

"O spirit! who art hidden here below!Never was thy Romagna without warIn her proud tyrants' bosoms, nor is now:But open war there left I none. The state,Ravenna hath maintain'd this many a year,Is steadfast. There Polenta's eagle broods,And in his broad circumference of plumeO'ershadows Cervia. The green talons graspThe land, that stood erewhile the proof so long,And pil'd in bloody heap the host of France.

"The' old mastiff of Verruchio and the young,That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make,Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs.

"Lamone's city and Santerno's rangeUnder the lion of the snowy lair.Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides,Or ever summer yields to winter's frost.And she, whose flank is wash'd of Savio's wave,As 'twixt the level and the steep she lies,Lives so 'twixt tyrant power and liberty.

"Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou?Be not more hard than others. In the world,So may thy name still rear its forehead high."

Then roar'd awhile the fire, its sharpen'd pointOn either side wav'd, and thus breath'd at last:"If I did think, my answer were to one,Who ever could return unto the world,This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne'er,If true be told me, any from this depthHas found his upward way, I answer thee,Nor fear lest infamy record the words.

"A man of arms at first, I cloth'd me thenIn good Saint Francis' girdle, hoping soT' have made amends. And certainly my hopeHad fail'd not, but that he, whom curses light on,The' high priest again seduc'd me into sin.And how and wherefore listen while I tell.Long as this spirit mov'd the bones and pulpMy mother gave me, less my deeds bespakeThe nature of the lion than the fox.All ways of winding subtlety I knew,And with such art conducted, that the soundReach'd the world's limit. Soon as to that partOf life I found me come, when each behovesTo lower sails and gather in the lines;That which before had pleased me then I rued,And to repentance and confession turn'd;Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me!The chief of the new Pharisees meantime,Waging his warfare near the Lateran,Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foesAll Christians were, nor against Acre oneHad fought, nor traffic'd in the Soldan's land),He his great charge nor sacred ministryIn himself, rev'renc'd, nor in me that cord,Which us'd to mark with leanness whom it girded.As in Socrate, Constantine besoughtTo cure his leprosy Sylvester's aid,So me to cure the fever of his prideThis man besought: my counsel to that endHe ask'd: and I was silent: for his wordsSeem'd drunken: but forthwith he thus resum'd:'From thy heart banish fear: of all offenceI hitherto absolve thee. In return,Teach me my purpose so to execute,That Penestrino cumber earth no more.Heav'n, as thou knowest, I have power to shutAnd open: and the keys are therefore twain,The which my predecessor meanly priz'd.'"

Then, yielding to the forceful arguments,Of silence as more perilous I deem'd,And answer'd: "Father! since thou washest meClear of that guilt wherein I now must fall,Large promise with performance scant, be sure,Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat."

"When I was number'd with the dead, then cameSaint Francis for me; but a cherub darkHe met, who cried: 'Wrong me not; he is mine,And must below to join the wretched crew,For the deceitful counsel which he gave.E'er since I watch'd him, hov'ring at his hair,No power can the impenitent absolve;Nor to repent and will at once consist,By contradiction absolute forbid.'"Oh mis'ry! how I shook myself, when heSeiz'd me, and cried, "Thou haply thought'st me notA disputant in logic so exact."To Minos down he bore me, and the judgeTwin'd eight times round his callous back the tail,Which biting with excess of rage, he spake:"This is a guilty soul, that in the fireMust vanish. Hence perdition-doom'd I roveA prey to rankling sorrow in this garb."

When he had thus fulfill'd his words, the flameIn dolour parted, beating to and fro,And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went,I and my leader, up along the rock,Far as another arch, that overhangsThe foss, wherein the penalty is paidOf those, who load them with committed sin.

CANTO XXVIII

WHO, e'en in words unfetter'd, might at fullTell of the wounds and blood that now I saw,Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongueSo vast a theme could equal, speech and thoughtBoth impotent alike. If in one bandCollected, stood the people all, who e'erPour'd on Apulia's happy soil their blood,Slain by the Trojans, and in that long warWhen of the rings the measur'd booty madeA pile so high, as Rome's historian writesWho errs not, with the multitude, that feltThe grinding force of Guiscard's Norman steel,And those the rest, whose bones are gather'd yetAt Ceperano, there where treacheryBranded th' Apulian name, or where beyondThy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without armsThe old Alardo conquer'd; and his limbsOne were to show transpierc'd, another hisClean lopt away; a spectacle like thisWere but a thing of nought, to the' hideous sightOf the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lostIts middle or side stave, gapes not so wide,As one I mark'd, torn from the chin throughoutDown to the hinder passage: 'twixt the legsDangling his entrails hung, the midriff layOpen to view, and wretched ventricle,That turns th' englutted aliment to dross.

Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze,He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare,And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo!

"How is Mohammed mangled! before meWalks Ali weeping, from the chin his faceCleft to the forelock; and the others allWhom here thou seest, while they liv'd, did sowScandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent.A fiend is here behind, who with his swordHacks us thus cruelly, slivering againEach of this ream, when we have compast roundThe dismal way, for first our gashes closeEre we repass before him. But say whoArt thou, that standest musing on the rock,Haply so lingering to delay the painSentenc'd upon thy crimes?"--"Him death not yet,"My guide rejoin'd, "hath overta'en, nor sinConducts to torment; but, that he may makeFull trial of your state, I who am deadMust through the depths of hell, from orb to orb,Conduct him. Trust my words, for they are true."

More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard,Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed,Forgetful of their pangs. "Thou, who perchanceShalt shortly view the sun, this warning thouBear to Dolcino: bid him, if he wish notHere soon to follow me, that with good storeOf food he arm him, lest impris'ning snowsYield him a victim to Novara's power,No easy conquest else." With foot uprais'dFor stepping, spake Mohammed, on the groundThen fix'd it to depart. Another shade,Pierc'd in the throat, his nostrils mutilateE'en from beneath the eyebrows, and one earLopt off, who with the rest through wonder stoodGazing, before the rest advanc'd, and bar'dHis wind-pipe, that without was all o'ersmear'dWith crimson stain. "O thou!" said he, "whom sinCondemns not, and whom erst (unless too nearResemblance do deceive me) I aloftHave seen on Latian ground, call thou to mindPiero of Medicina, if againReturning, thou behold'st the pleasant landThat from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo;

"And there instruct the twain, whom Fano boastsHer worthiest sons, Guido and Angelo,That if 't is giv'n us here to scan arightThe future, they out of life's tenementShall be cast forth, and whelm'd under the wavesNear to Cattolica, through perfidyOf a fell tyrant. 'Twixt the Cyprian isleAnd Balearic, ne'er hath Neptune seenAn injury so foul, by pirates doneOr Argive crew of old. That one-ey'd traitor(Whose realm there is a spirit here were fainHis eye had still lack'd sight of) them shall bringTo conf'rence with him, then so shape his end,That they shall need not 'gainst Focara's windOffer up vow nor pray'r." I answering thus:

"Declare, as thou dost wish that I aboveMay carry tidings of thee, who is he,In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?"

Forthwith he laid his hand on the cheek-boneOf one, his fellow-spirit, and his jawsExpanding, cried: "Lo! this is he I wot of;He speaks not for himself: the outcast thisWho overwhelm'd the doubt in Caesar's mind,Affirming that delay to men prepar'dWas ever harmful." Oh how terrifiedMethought was Curio, from whose throat was cutThe tongue, which spake that hardy word. Then oneMaim'd of each hand, uplifted in the gloomThe bleeding stumps, that they with gory spotsSullied his face, and cried: "'Remember theeOf Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim'd,'The deed once done there is an end,' that prov'dA seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race."

I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe."

Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off,As one grief stung to madness. But I thereStill linger'd to behold the troop, and sawThings, such as I may fear without more proofTo tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,The boon companion, who her strong breast-plateBuckles on him, that feels no guilt withinAnd bids him on and fear not. Without doubtI saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,A headless trunk, that even as the restOf the sad flock pac'd onward. By the hairIt bore the sever'd member, lantern-wisePendent in hand, which look'd at us and said,

"Woe's me!" The spirit lighted thus himself,And two there were in one, and one in two.How that may be he knows who ordereth so.

When at the bridge's foot direct he stood,His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the headFull in our view, that nearer we might hearThe words, which thus it utter'd: "Now beholdThis grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'stTo spy the dead; behold if any elseBe terrible as this. And that on earthThou mayst bear tidings of me, know that IAm Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King JohnThe counsel mischievous. Father and sonI set at mutual war. For AbsalomAnd David more did not Ahitophel,Spurring them on maliciously to strife.For parting those so closely knit, my brainParted, alas! I carry from its source,That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the lawOf retribution fiercely works in me."